If Bucky had shot at him, or launched himself at him, Steve would've known what to do. Reflexes would have taken over and he would've moved gracefully, deftly, with power and speed. But this?

He picks up the papers like the most awkward, fumbly idiot in the history of awkward, fumbly idiots. Then he closes the door behind him, and bundles the folder onto his small table. Then, and only then, does he turn to the man sitting on his bed.

"Bucky..."

There are a thousand things he wants to say. A million. Where have you been. What do you remember. Why didn't you stay with me. How much does it hurt.

He settles for, "How are you?"